


built my life around you

by orphan_account



Category: Larry Stylinson - Fandom, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Aging, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Harry, Comeplay, Daddy Kink, Future Fic, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Married Couple, Smut, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-07 17:15:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a grownup doesn't mean having it all sussed and sorted, especially if you’re Louis from One Direction, but when someone loves you regardless of age, the years are worth the living.</p>
            </blockquote>





	built my life around you

**Author's Note:**

> “Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love  
> Can the child within my heart rise above  
> Can I sail through the changin’ ocean tides  
> Can I handle the seasons of my life?
> 
> Well, I’ve been afraid of changin’  
> ‘Cause I’ve built my life around you  
> But time makes you bolder  
> Even children get older, and I’m gettin’ older too.”
> 
>  
> 
> **Fleetwood Mac, 1975, _Landslide_**

 

**4 January 2031**

**10:12 PM**

He’s old, is the thing. Well past his expiry date. Finished, basically.

Louis Tomlinson-Styles is perched on a barstool in a popular London club, feeling the loud music more so than hearing it. A wicked groove that’s mostly bass makes shockwaves in his beer where it’s resting forgotten on the granite countertop. Or maybe it’s not granite. There are reflective fragments embedded in the surface, glinting like mica when one of the swirling overhead lights hits it just right.

Everything is sparkly, these days: clothing, furniture, beverages, jewelry, window treatments, bicycles, and briefcases. Even the skin on Louis’ hands shines, which is down to the shimmery lotion his husband insists on buying. They’re rugged hands with prominent veins, thick knuckles, and gnawed-off nails that he refuses to paint, though nail varnish is very much in fashion for men. The bright, glittery variety, it should go without saying.

He turned 39 less than two weeks ago. While it didn’t require quite the kicking and screaming bitchfest it normally did to get his friends to agree to ignore the milestone, the experience was still hellish. In the end, Louis was showered with handmade cards from his children over a special birthday brekky, but otherwise the day went unmarked.

To be fair, and taking the advanced state of modern medicine into account, Louis can be relatively assured his life is but a fourth over, if that. Looking at the person next to him, however, Louis thinks he might as well be 100. He might as well be dead.

The other Mr. Tomlinson-Styles is lounging against the bar waiting for a refill, and even in this hazy light he’s radiant. It’s natural, is what pisses Louis off, while simultaneously making him proud as hell. Sure, Harry makes liberal use of cosmetics. He always has—simply to enhance his ethereal splendor, not cover up anything unsightly. Louis’ heard that old adage about some people’s outward appearance being a reflection of their inner beauty, and it certainly applies to his husband.

Which isn’t entirely fair, Louis thinks. _He_ feels like a graceful wildcat inside, but more closely resembles an ancient, disheveled lion, whenever he chances a glimpse in the mirror.

Harry is 36 for another month, but he looks ten years younger.

His shoulders, broad and strong, are encased in sheer fabric shot through with metallic threads in orange and gold. The shirt hangs open over a chest haphazardly covered in tattoos. Inked replicas of their children’s footprints dance up his belly, around the butterfly design that still makes Louis groan fondly, and continue over his heart. Some of Harry’s tats are more faded than others (like the mismatched pair of swallows swooping under his collarbones), but he’s pleased to display them, as they signify the things—people, rather—he cherishes most.

A female server approaches, deftly wedging between the married couple to set a drink in front of Harry. The mixture in a sweating cocktail glass is pink, and it’s garnished with three monster raspberries on a bamboo pick. Edible glitter floats on the liquid, which is likely Chambord and soda. There might be a splash of citrus-flavoured vodka to increase the potency.

“Erm, this must be someone else’s,” Harry says to the woman, leaning nearer her ear to be heard. “’s not what I ordered.” And it’s not at all that Harry’s hard to please, but god forbid some poor soul go without their fruity, alcoholic nightmare because of a waitress’ mistake.

It’s no mistake, as it turns out.

“He ordered it for you, love,” she answers, pointing down the bar to another customer. A man wearing bedazzled leather and a smile meets Harry’s eyes with his own, blowing a delicate kiss.

Harry grins shyly and ducks his head to take a sip. The drink is sweet, bubbly, and ridiculous; Harry is flattered, while Louis is ashamed to know it’s called 'No Control.'

Yes, the Tomlinson-Styles's are former members of the international pop sensation, One Direction. Yes, they’re famous enough to have a cocktail named after one of their songs, at least in their native country. And, yes, at least one other person in this club knows their identities, in spite of their last tour having been over a decade ago.

 _Poncy motherfucker_ , Louis thinks, taking in the man’s perfectly erect bearing, his effeminate features. He appears too young to be a proper 1D fanboy, but you never know, with all the make-up layered on the guy’s face. His sleek, chin-length hair is teal—a very familiar shade of teal that Louis hasn’t seen since one of their stylists finally banished a pair of trousers he frequently wore in the band’s early days.

“That was nice, wasn’t it, Lou? People are so nice to us,” asserts Harry, referring to the stranger’s gesture and using the tiny skewer to stir his free drink.

“Nice,” Louis echoes, but he watches the way Turquoise Prat is watching his husband. With blatant yearning, that is.

Louis is piqued. If he’s honest with himself, it’s jealousy that’s heating his blood. It’s been eons since someone turned such a look of desire on him. Hell, it’s been a while since _Harry’s_ gotten that gleam in his eye. Or maybe he has, just not for his partner. And if that isn’t a fearsome thought, well… It simply is. With the number of Harry’s business connections and acquaintances, god knows exactly who he might be flirting with over drinks when Louis’ not around.

Sometimes Louis finds it difficult to discern between the genuinely friendly overtures people make to his husband, and attempts to woo the charming man. Just now it’s unmistakable. A handsome stranger is offering Harry sex on silver platter, preliminary intoxication optional. Antipathy rises in Louis’ chest like indigestion.

“Dance with me, please.”

In a bit of a daze, Louis gradually becomes aware that Harry is sidling up to him and voicing a request.

“Dance with me, dance with me, c’mon,” Harry begs childishly, as he curls a finger through Louis’ belt loop and tugs.

“Not right now, yeah? I’m tired and decrepit,” is Louis’ spiteful excuse. “Why don’t you ask your new friend?”

Glancing across the room, Harry frowns. It doesn’t seem to deter the man who, even still, is pointing a laser stare at him. “Don’t like his hair. It’s weird.”

“It’s quirky, and so are you. Why would I care to be seen dancing with you, anyway, Harold? You’ve got moves like a drunken octopus.”

“Because you want to grab my bum in public?” Harry speculates with a saucy pout. It’s much more probable he’d be groping Louis, but that’s immaterial to his argument. Shaking his head ruefully, Louis downs some beer. The discussion is over.

“Let’s go home, then,” Harry sighs, relenting. He sways back in displeasure, nearly knocking another patron from their chair. “Oops, sorry,” he tosses over his shoulder and straightens his posture.

“You’ve not had your fun yet. Go on,” orders the elder of the two, flapping a hand at the teeming dance floor, “frolic with the other toddlers.” Maybe if he can pretend indifference, Harry won’t detect Louis’ insecurity, flaring under the vigilant eye of Harry’s would-be paramour.

It’s strange. Louis hasn’t railed about their age difference in, well, ages. There’s something about tonight, though. Maybe it’s because, for the next few weeks, there’s seemingly three years between them… Or because the other clubgoers look to be barely legal, and Harry fits right in.

“No, I’m serious. I want to leave.” Harry’s hand is heavy on Louis’ forearm as he speaks. If Louis' in a strop, there's no further enjoyment to be had here. “I’ll call a taxi.” Releasing Louis, he presses an icon on the screen of his phone that will summon a car to their location.

By the time they settle their tab electronically and reach the exit, an unmanned cab is waiting. Harry swipes his fancy wristwatch in front of the car door nearest the curb, and the lock disengages. Louis’ identity chip is embedded in his wedding ring, which he also waves at the handle of the taxi. There are two rows of available seating, as the computerized vehicle doesn’t require a driver, but they both climb into the back. Old habits die hard.

Once again, Harry uses his phone to communicate with the transit company, simply tapping another icon in the shape of a house, which sends a command to take them to their London residence. The fare will be calculated automatically and debited from Harry’s designated bank account. A digital voice reminds them to fasten their safety restraints, before the engine quietly engages.

As the car merges into traffic faultlessly, Harry nuzzles his husband’s neck to catch his scent. It’s pungent, unique, and wonderfully familiar. Soon, he pulls Louis into a kiss.

“Cameras,” Louis warns harshly, breaking away. It takes a moment for Harry to comprehend why. Being out and proud, the couple hasn’t needed to avoid PDAs for years. That doesn’t mean Louis wants to be recorded and tittered at by random security personnel. The cabs are fully monitored; damage to the vehicle’s interior and illegal activity of every sort is logged and reported. Because the computer onboard ‘knows’ who they are, most shenanigans are out of the question.

But the threat of observation makes no difference to Harry. Perhaps it spurs him on.

“I don’t even care. Just want to touch you,” Harry says, putting action to his words. He’s tipsy enough to be embarrassingly tactile. “Mmm… You look so gorgeous tonight, Lou Bear. I’m glad you wore those earrings.”

If Harry’s trying to provoke his companion, he’s doing a grand job of it. Flashy diamond studs—an ironic Christmas gift from their friend and former bandmate, Zayn—decorate Louis’ earlobes, making him feel like a pretentious twat. Harry had wanted to see him in jewels so badly, and Louis had finally acquiesced, in honour of this being their first date of the New Year. And the last year of Louis’ thirties, _Christ_.

As Harry caresses Louis’ chest, a rhinestone button (yet another affectation Louis hates) catches on his sleeve. The flimsy fabric tears when Harry moves his arm.

“Dammit! I love this shirt,” Harry laments.

“Waste of good coin, innit.” Considering how wealthy they are, Louis’ response might be irrelevant. He goes on to ask, “Why do you dress like this, anyway?” Fingering the delicate garment with an ugly sneer, his eyes drop to Harry’s legs, tightly encased in a denim/spandex blend. “It’s like—like you want some random bloke to fuck you in an alley.”

Harry’s expression becomes pained, and he thumbs at the corner of his eye where a tear has already sprung. The disparaging, authoritative tone his partner is using brings Harry to a vulnerable state instantly. He’s aware that Louis has progressed from irritation to anger.

“This is for you, Daddy,” he explains timorously. “It’s always for you. But if you don’t like it...”

“Don’t call me that!” Louis interjects. “Makes me feel like a creaky old man in nappies.” And it does, suddenly and inexplicably.

That’s enough to send Harry slithering across the bench seat to the opposite side. There aren’t many things that will put him off completely, but Louis failing to care for his emotions when he’s laid himself bare is one. Harry’s utterly confounded; that special word has always been safe for him to say, for him to feel.

The rest of the ride is uncomfortable, to put it mildly.

⌛⌛⌛

**11:01 PM**

After Harry and Louis’ wish for two or three children came true, via the miracle of surrogacy, it evolved into a wish for two or three more. Adoption also helped them realise the dream. Now all five of the Tomlinson-Styles kids are spending the remainder of their winter hols with Grammy Anne and Granddad Robin.

With the expansive London property empty but for the overworked fathers, Harry assumed the evening of their date would end rather differently, perhaps even with orgasms. Unfortunately, late night telly is the riveting denouement, it seems.

Louis is plastered against one arm of the sofa, and his body language clearly proclaims, “Stay the fuck away.” His eyes are on the television, while his mind is on the club they just vacated.

Perpendicular to him, Harry occupies a plush leather recliner, but he’s not at ease. Elbows propped on his thighs, the slightly younger man hunches over and glares at his silent phone. A text message he shot off at their friend Tom Atkin has gone unanswered.  There’s an idea brewing in Harry’s mind, but he’ll need help to carry it out.

“He was a bit of alright,” Louis blurts, apropos of his own musings. It’s the first time he’s spoken since they arrived at home, and Harry assumes correctly that it’s because his husband is stewing in juvenile agitation.

“What?”

“Your admirer, I mean,” Louis clarifies. “Not as fit as, say, David Beckham in his prime…”

He won’t verbalise it, but Harry can admit to himself that the interested stranger was attractive. His compelling face and slim build, combined with a healthy dose of obvious fascination, made him appealing. No one dislikes being wanted, do they?

Harry settles for a noncommittal, “Yeah.”

Exactly two adverts later, Louis mutes the television and goes on. He sounds flippant but appears contemplative when he ventures, “You could've had him.”

And that’s just distressing. Does Louis mean he could have pulled a fan? That point should go without saying. Or, much worse, is he implying it would have been acceptable for Harry to pursue an affair? Harry’s heart gives a painful throb at the idea. He picks at a scab on his hand and doesn’t reply.

“You’re everyone’s darling, Haz. The whole bloody world fancies you. Still.” Louis’ voice is suddenly small. He doesn’t know why he’s pressing the issue. “This is a choice, you know,” he continues recklessly. Louis waggles the fingers of his left hand, pointing to a platinum band set with several flat diamonds. “It’s a choice, yeah? And you don’t have to make the same one you did twelve years ago.”

This is wrong. It’s sounding like the precursor to a break up, or at the very least a massive row. Louis doesn’t want it to, but he can’t quit running his mouth. He’s facing troubling self-doubt, and maybe this is an ineffective way to ask for approval, but it is what it is.

“Is that... Are you, like—” Harry tries.

Louis jumps back in with, “How d’you know we’re meant to be together anymore? You just kind of fell in with me because of the show and—”

“No, please stop,” implores Harry. “Don’t say any more.” He grips one of his knees with bruising strength. It’s either that or lash out, and Harry won’t willingly hurt anyone, least of all his lover and friend. Father of his children. Soulmate and spouse. Each and every cliché that scrolls through his thoughts applies, much to Harry’s satisfaction.

A solid 20 minutes of eerie silence ensues. Louis flips channels, telly soundless; Harry sends off a few more frantic texts. Reaching Tom is proving impossible. Now it’s up to the universe to provide a suitable substitute. Sure that he needs to employ drastic measures, Harry steels himself and proceeds to deceive the one who most deserves truths.

“Okay, then. You think he’s still there?”

“Sorry, what?” Louis checks. He’d been momentarily absorbed reading the captions of a chat show, prior to this puzzling interruption.

“The guy at the club. With the hair.” Harry gestures to his own traditionally-coloured mane. It’s not even beginning to gray, unlike Louis’.

It takes several seconds for the meaning of Harry’s utterance to register. Louis jolts when it does.

“You wanna go back?”

“Might as well,” Harry says, unintentionally quoting the cheeky tattoo on his pelvis, now covered over. He got it so long ago, he’s not sure he remembers the original connotation of the phrase—only that Teen Zayn had scribbled it on Teen Harry, and they’d both laughed over it for days. “If you think I’ve got a chance,” he adds, the words intentionally superfluous. How is Louis missing the obvious falsity pervading Harry’s side of this conversation, Harry wonders.

Louis sniffs. “He’s a sure thing, _mate_.”

“Good. That settles it,” decides Harry, standing with false poise to pocket his phone. “I’ll just go swap my shirt.”

When Harry returns to the room a few minutes later, he’s wearing a threadbare, plaid top over a white vest, gone somewhat dingy with age. He has changed his jeans, as well, for a pair that’s marginally looser. The ensemble couldn’t be considered clubwear, not by any stretch of the imagination. Harry must be quite confident in his powers of seduction, Louis thinks. On the other hand, he did have ample encouragement.

Louis just encouraged his husband to go after another man.

The thought has his pulse racing and the worst kind of nausea roiling in his gut, because it appears Harry’s going through with it. He’s stood by the archway that leads from their lounge to the main foyer. He’s running a nervous hand through his hair, which now puddles around his shoulders in chestnut waves. He’s fiddling with his shiny Rolex and pulling off his ring.

 _Wait_ , he’s pulling off his wedding band and strolling over to Louis.

“Look after it for me, will you?” Harry asks, tucking the important accessory into Louis’ hand, which has risen automatically to receive it.

“Of course.” He’s getting choked up, but Louis manages that much without revealing his panic.

In all these years, he’s never seen Harry remove his wedding ring. Well, not since it spent half an hour in the breast pocket of Zayn’s tux when he performed best man duties at Harry and Louis’ wedding ceremony. The elegant ring had first been given as a token of their engagement, and the significance was upgraded when Louis returned it during the vows. Vows that Harry made too. Vows that Harry is going to renege on before the next sunrise, with no metal circlet to remind him he shouldn’t.

 _Then again_ —“He’ll see your tat,” Louis warns. Given Harry’s obsession for ink, it wasn’t surprising that he’d cajoled Louis into matching tattoos on their left ring fingers even before they were officially affianced.

Harry merely shrugs, consults the shining screen of his phone, and leaves.

⌛⌛⌛

**11:40 PM**

Harry’s not been gone more than five minutes. _He won’t be at the club yet._

Dragging himself off the sofa, Louis ambles to the toilet for a piss. With no one to witness his brave nonchalance, he’s amazed to be capable of walking upright. Undoing his flies preemptively, he chooses a guest lavatory they rarely use. There’s a framed picture of him and Harry next to the sink Louis doesn’t remember placing there and definitely wouldn’t have. Who wants to look at someone’s face while they perform embarrassing bodily functions?

As he zips up, he considers their frozen expressions from sometime in the past, probably an anniversary: they were happy. _Fuck that, we_ are _happy._ Harry and Louis enjoy the kind of life others aspire to. They’re rich in ways tangible and intangible. Harry won’t trade all that for temporary pleasure, _will he?_ No, he knows better.

Harry Tomlinson-Styles is nobody’s fool, though his husband might be one.

⌛⌛⌛

**5 January 2031**

**Midnight**

Louis grabs an unopened fifth of scotch from their liquor cabinet. He had rapidly discarded any pretense of strength. There’s no reason he shouldn’t be drunk, and several that he should. Just hours ago, Louis would have put a great sum of money on Harry’s faithfulness to their marriage. Now he’s convinced that Harry will throw him over. _And why wouldn’t he, when there are greener pastures to be had?_ That makes Louis remember the stranger’s green hair, and he winces.

Is Harry dancing with the eccentric, younger man? Are they snogging yet?  

The worst day of Louis’ life is over, potentially the next worst only just begun. He takes a hit of alcohol straight from the bottle. Then another.

⌛⌛⌛

**1:11 AM**

Louis is lying face down on a lavender rug in one of the girls’ rooms, surrounded by stuffed toys and discarded clothing, and watched over by innumerable band posters. There’s even an enlarged photograph of One Direction in their heyday above a desk. It’s a good thing his former self can’t see him now, Louis supposes.

He’s wasted. He’s pathetic. He’s sad.

Where is the vivacious, energetic man Louis used to be? Louis hasn’t seen him since maybe his 35th birthday. That’s when he became aware of a certain slowing down. His thoughts were calmer, he didn’t hustle about as he always had, and he was just as content to be napping on the couch as he’d formerly been running around a football pitch.

As he stretches his tired, cramping limbs, Louis’ hand brushes something cold and hard. Reaching further under the bed’s pleated valance, he comes up with a pair of wire frames—Jez’s reading glasses.

At 15, Jezebel is their eldest daughter. The pretty girl of mixed ethnicity joined their family when she was already ten years old, but she quickly became the children’s leader. As their champion and stalwart defender, Jez often runs interference between her siblings and their dads. Though she’s precocious, she’s still a child, and her messy, private sanctuary reflects that.

Louis is struck with an insight: Jez’s nearly the age Harry was when he met him on the X Factor and they plunged headlong into a friendship that segued naturally into romance. He can’t speak for Harry, but Louis had felt like a card-carrying adult with his destiny in his own hands. In reality, they’d been infants. They’d been helpless at the whim of fate. _Is Fate actually a goddess?_ In his intoxication, Louis can’t recall the ins and outs of mythology. Oh, well, he thinks—if she is, the old bitch must be chortling at this turn of events.

⌛⌛⌛

**2:57 AM**

It’s been hours; the deed is surely done. Even if Harry and his new lover (the word itself makes a mockery of Louis’ feelings) have gone for another round, they’ve no doubt finished by now. With the certainty that he’s been cuckolded, Louis tries to imagine if he’d ever betray Harry in the same way. He’s been tempted, absolutely, but never beyond bearing. Fidelity has been relatively effortless.

His teenage self, on the other hand, was a regular slag—always chasing the next random fuck, just hoping to make a lasting connection. Adrift, vulnerable, and lonely, Louis was ready to settle down when he met Harry. The timing couldn’t have been better. It seemed like the culmination of all his dreams, all at once.

But there again, Harry had been a naive 16-year-old and barely coming into his own. It’s quite likely, now Louis thinks of it, that he resents Louis for limiting his opportunities to dick around. Is this what he should’ve expected, then? Had Harry’s rebellion against monogamy been inevitable and merely delayed?

Stood on the balcony outside their master suite, Louis is cold—body and soul.

He sends Harry’s wedding ring sailing over the balustrade. It lands on a bank of snow, but with its insufficient weight, doesn’t penetrate the crusty upper layer. So much for _his_ dramatic deed. 

⌛⌛⌛

**3:35 AM**

A strident noise and vibration from Louis’ phone rattles his bedside table once, then again 60 seconds later. In opposition to the device’s alarming sound, the glow of its screen is gentle. He rolls over to check it, and there’s a brand new text message waiting.

**Hazza T: Can you come get me?**

This is it; this is what Louis has been waiting for. This is where the line of demarcation falls, he thinks, the invisible timestamp that will divide life into before and after. Everything he says to Harry from here on out will be with the knowledge of his adultery. It sends a thrill of fear through his body and—strangely enough—physical longing for Harry.

 _“Why not use a cab,”_ Louis types with shaky fingers. He’s mostly sober, but at the mercy of his ragged nerves.

**Hazza T: I need you to pick me up and take me home, please.**

Summoned to the scene of the crime? What torture is this? Louis seriously contemplates damning his husband to hell with his next message.

 _“Send the address to my car,”_ he writes instead.

Harry’s response comes immediately.

**Hazza T: Okay, see you soon .xx**

Louis turns off his phone and dumps it on the rumpled duvet. Oh, how those two virtual “kisses” hurt. Abandoning the bed he’s shared with one partner for the entirety of his adult life, charged with retrieving his husband from another man’s mattress, feels like the hardest thing Louis’ ever done.

⌛⌛⌛

**3:54 AM**

With the Porsche on autodrive, Louis actually dozes off until he realises the car is no longer in motion. It’s parked near a building he recognises—a high-rise where Zayn keeps a swanky flat for when he comes to London on business.

Louis’ identity chip gains him ingress to the complex and an amazingly fast lift. On the second to top floor, Louis pokes a buzzer next to a heavy door. It looks like brushed steel, but he knows it’s some kind of polymer. In a matter of moments, it slides open to reveal a bedraggled Zayn.

Their embrace is quick and fierce, instinctual after years of friendship.

“Oi, Louis. Missed you,” the dark-haired man growls. They haven’t been face to face in several months.

“Wanker,” Louis chides, giving him an affectionate shove. Strained smile dropping a little, he asks, “Harry here, then?”

Zayn nods, and he grows subdued before speaking again. “Listen, be nice to him, yeah? He needs, like, some reassurance or— I dunno.”

Louis cocks an eyebrow. And isn’t _this_ a swift kick in the arse: Harry cheats, goes to Zayn afterwards, and Zayn is asking Louis, the injured party, for lenience?

“You can fuck right off. And send him out, while you’re at it. Or keep ‘im here, if you’re so in love.” Louis paces towards the lift, hands gripping his own sides through the pockets of his ratty denim jacket. It had been a present from Harry back before the world knew they were involved, a time Louis only dimly recollects.

“You’ve got the wrong end of the stick,” Zayn calls, to no avail.

⌛⌛⌛

**4:13 AM**

After Harry ducks into the passenger seat of the car, Louis steadfastly ignores him. It’s not like them to travel without banter, even short distances, but nothing about this night is normal. They’re broken, Louis assumes, like a fumbled teacup ruined by hard ground, their love spilled amongst the shards. He can’t help the internal dramatics, won’t surrender his emotions to Harry for scrutiny.

Halfway through the trip home, however, Louis catches himself leaning subtly sideways to smell the air around Harry, searching for a whiff of anything unusual. He only registers Harry’s cologne and a faint overlay of tobacco vapour.

“How was he?” Louis barks suddenly, sitting up ramrod straight.

“Who, Zayn? Lovely, as always. I didn’t even know he was in town until earlier. Did you?”

Louis just grunts. When he twists the steering wheel to bring them around a corner, the car skids on a slushy patch of road, prompting autodrive to take over and Harry’s stomach to dip.

“Fucking hell,” swears Louis. He dislikes losing control to the computerized technology, programmed to ensure safety. Modern transportation is remarkably harmless, but Louis misses the feeling of careening over bumpy ground at high speed. Dangerous driving is such a rush, at least in his memory.

They make it to their estate in sound health, all thanks to the newfangled vehicle. Once they’re parked, the wide garage reverberates briefly with the noise of a door rolling closed behind them. Louis doesn’t move to exit the cozy Boxster, so Harry doesn’t either.

“Can we talk?” he asks, angling his body slightly in Louis’ direction. His meager hopes are dashed when his husband gives a monosyllabic denial and climbs out. But Harry follows close behind, dogging his determined steps. Harry decides to force the issue. ‘When in doubt, hug it out’ is his motto, after all.

Crowded against the wall of the utility room at the back of their house, Louis can’t help but relax into him momentarily. It’s too easy; he’s too weak. Harry anchors his gloved hands at Louis’ waist, and the shorter man sighs against the side of Harry’s neck—such a common resting place for his lips. How many hours has Louis’ mouth spent just about here? Then he _remembers_ and pulls back to look for a mark, any evidence someone else might have touched the skin there. If they did, the interloper’s fingerprints are invisible.

“You should have a shower,” Louis says, exerting a small amount of pressure on Harry’s chest with his palms.

“Don’t need to,” Harry protests, and he lowers his head, wishing for another nuzzle. Louis wants comfort himself, but not from the one who caused his pain in the first place.

“I can’t touch you—” Louis says, and he finishes silently, _with him still on you_. Harry is disappointed. His face gives him away, as always, in spite of his best effort to remain impassive.

“Okay,” he says, shuffling back. Harry makes a show of removing his left glove slowly, tugging at each fingertip until it’s loose and slides off easily. There’s a glossy bandage on his hand, which he holds conspicuously at eye level, but Louis doesn’t notice. He’s already half-turned to go.

⌛⌛⌛

**4:30 AM**

Mindlessly conforming to his customary routine, Harry puts their coats on a neat row of hooks in the entry and kicks Louis’ discarded shoes onto a mat where they belong. He gets himself a drink of cold water from the kitchen, filling another glass to bring to Louis, who has disappeared. Harry finds him in their bedroom, propped up on a mound of pillows against their massive upholstered headboard.

He’s smoking, an actual cigarette lit and glowing between his fingers. Harry has no idea where Louis managed to find the contraband—fags have been outlawed for years—but there’s a pack of Marlboro Reds sitting on the bedcovers like a challenge. While vapour cigs are the not-so-new, safer norm, Louis has never taken to them. He pulls on the cigarette in a long drag, eventually expelling a gust of smoke that irritates Harry’s lungs and wrinkles his nose.

Before Harry has a chance to object to the fumes, Louis says, “If you’re planning to sleep, you can take the sofa.”

“No,” Harry says resolutely.

“Pardon?” asks Louis with a sardonic eyebrow raise. A bit of ash falls to the duvet, singeing the formerly pristine fabric.

“I said, no. I don’t want to be alone.”

“Ha,” Louis scoffs, and he takes two sustaining puffs before continuing. “You’re not the one who should be complaining of loneliness, eh? I’m sure you’ve been in better company than I have tonight, love.” He goes to tap the dwindling cigarette, but realises there’s nothing to use for an ashtray. With a grumpy sigh, he resigns himself to ruining their linens.

Harry shrugs. “Zayn’s great, yeah, but—”

“Zayn is not my concern,” Louis expostulates.

“Well, he should be, Lou. I spent the night with him.”

Holding his breath, Harry waits for the words to sink in. When they do, Louis’ expression contorts in an amalgamation of confused emotion.

“You… What?” Louis is mystified. Did Harry just deny going back to the club? Or did he admit to fucking Zayn? Neither? _Both?_

With a loud exhale, Harry settles on the end of the bed. He’s near enough to touch Louis’ bare feet, but far enough away to avoid doing it accidentally.

“Didn’t you check ChatusQuo, or anything?” Harry pauses when Louis shakes his head vehemently, then extends the forgotten glass of water for Louis to place the smouldering cigarette butt in. “I posted something, like, every half hour.”

Scrabbling in the covers for his phone, Louis finds it and switches it on. In no more than a few anxious heartbeats, the device is powered up and logged into the app that consolidates Louis’ social media accounts, both personal and professional. There is, in fact, a stream of notifications going all the way back to yesterday evening.

First, Louis stares at a picture of himself at the rowdy club, grimacing into his beer (but still looking quite put together, even discounting a certain amount of bias). The angle is good; Harry’s always known how to get his best side. He feels a sudden blast of fondness.

Then he scans an innocuous series of photographs, each from the interior of Zayn’s flat. Zayn’s lounge is spacious and sophisticated, as Louis well knows. Not unexpectedly, there are a few snapshots of Harry’s lower legs and boots. In one frame, Zayn is blurry and laughing. In the next, he’s straight-faced, donning a pair of medical-grade protective gloves. Louis feels ill when he views a short video clip: Zayn cautiously moving a buzzing tool over Harry’s skin, setting it aside to wipe at a smear of ink and blood.

Louis speaks, though he’s astonished to have the wherewithal to utilize his voice. “What have you done?”

When Harry puts his left hand in front of him, Louis crawls forward to peer at it. There’s no wedding ring, of course, but Harry is wearing a length of plastic wrap on his fourth finger. He unwinds it, crumpling the makeshift bandage and tossing it away, making no attempt to land it in their small bedside bin.

The space between Harry’s second and third knuckles is moderately swollen, and it’s adorned with the black and gray pattern of his old tattoo, as well as a ring of indistinguishable words just above it.

“You told me it was a choice, so…”

Louis startles, but he recovers quickly and takes Harry’s hand for a closer inspection. The miniscule letters are in a vintage font reminiscent of a typewriter’s imprint. They form words, which make a simple phrase: ‘I CHOOSE LOU.’ When Louis gingerly turns Harry’s hand over, the short sentence is repeated on the other side, creating a continuous loop around his finger. ‘I CHOOSE LOU I CHOOSE LOU,’ and so on. It occurs to Louis that the fresh tattoo will be visible even above Harry’s wedding band, assuming they can locate it in the garden. Assuming they decide to.

“Do you?” Louis asks flatly. “Choose me, that is.” Though the evidence is staring him in the face, he’s leery of the answer.

“I do,” Harry states, in a stirring echo of the vows Louis thought had been rendered null and void.

The collision of reality and Louis’ tragically unfounded fears is like a crippled airplane meeting the ground nose first, minus the fiery inferno. This metaphorical aircraft has plenty more than two passengers (Harry, Louis, and the children that rely on them), and Louis wonders if there will be any survivors, or if his distrust has doomed them all. Raising himself from the bed, Louis’ instinctive response, other than terror, is lust-infused defiance. He tilts his head back and scowls at Harry.

“Get your kit off and wait for me,” Louis instructs, striding away.

Even from within their ensuite, Louis can hear the small noises of Harry stripping energetically, lobbing his clothes in a hamper, and getting comfortable on their bed. Then it’s quiet except for Louis’ accelerated breathing.

_He’s still mine._

The pure relief of it makes Louis’ knees go wobbly. He lets the door at his back hold him up until he’s capable of standing on his own, and it takes a while. Louis sheds a few tears, and even he can’t tell if they’re of the happy variety or not.

When Louis reenters the bedroom, exuding a confidence that’s mostly feigned, he’s naked. So is Harry—waiting obediently at the edge of their low mattress, with his hands limp behind him and a hunch to his shoulders. Harry’s cock is not yet erect, but it’s thick and enticing where it dangles between his thighs.

Though the overhead light is blaring, Louis switches on a lamp and allows himself to catalogue Harry’s physical appearance. His hair is lustrous, his body a paragon of health. At first glance, the man is undeniably attractive.

When Louis looks more carefully, there are distinct signs of age. Harry may religiously maintain his muscular physique, but his meaty shoulders and arms have gone a bit soft, and there’s a tiny paunch below his navel. While his face is finally clear of acne (Harry waged that battle for years), the skin there is grainier and starting to sag, especially under his evergreen eyes. Louis can’t see it at the moment, but he knows Harry’s bum is baggier too. After nearly four decades, gravity is winning.

The overall effect, however, is bizarrely pleasing to Louis. His husband appears weathered but strong, and more masculine now than ever. His features are less of a hodgepodge, more of an evenly matured whole.

Louis might not need to reclaim Harry’s body, knowing now that it hasn’t been shared, but he wants to. He wants to touch Harry in every way and in every place possible. He won’t, not just yet, but he _wants to_.

“You said you were going back for that guy,” Louis accuses, placing himself directly in front of Harry. He stands with his feet splayed, small hands on his own wide hips.

“Kind of,” Harry agrees conditionally. Louis reaches out to brush at Harry’s lower lip, and their eyes finally meet.

To say that their love life is less than lively would be regrettably accurate. As active parents, entrepreneurs, and philanthropists, Harry and Louis are extremely busy. When it comes to sex, several times a day became several times a week, became several times a month, became the odd uninspired solo wank in the shower. Not to mention all the exciting things they could do as flexible twenty-somethings that just aren’t options.

But Louis is feeling a surge of arousal that’s comparable to the hunger he felt for Harry when they were still young enough to bang all night and half the next day. He’s going to go for it. Louis is going to prove to himself and his husband that Louis alone can keep him satisfied. So he takes a fortifying breath and dons the mantle of a character he’s played in this room again and again, albeit not recently.

“Is that pretty mouth good for anything but telling lies?” Louis asks sternly, and watches Harry’s eyebrows perk in understanding. His cock also rises to attention. Act 1, Scene 1.

Harry frowns, nodding tentatively in reply. He doesn’t talk yet, because Louis likely doesn’t want him to.

“Gonna show Daddy?”

That’s all the motivation Harry requires. He relaxes into the moment and bends forward, taking Louis by the thighs and mouthing at his warm groin. Using muscles in his lips and tongue and neck in concert, Harry focuses on demonstrating the considerable skill he’s developed with his partner over the years. He alternates wet licks with deep suction, feeling Louis lengthen in his mouth. It takes more effort now for the men to reach full mast, but Harry’s always loved a challenge in the bedroom.

“Yeah, baby, that _is_ good. Mmm… Don’t stop.” Louis’ voice isn’t quite as deep or authoritative as he would like. His heart is nearly as involved as his dick, at this point, which doesn’t bode well for his plan to dominate Harry tonight. Er, morning. Whichever.

On his part, Harry isn’t holding back, letting his eyes squint and drool gather on his chin, but Louis’ not worried about peaking too soon. Age has certain benefits, after all. The ability to keep a level head while watching Harry wreck himself in sexual service is definitely one.

Louis separates a single curl from Harry’s mop and twines it around two fingers, then he pushes them—hair and all—into Harry’s already full mouth. The additional volume makes Harry gag some, but when he regains his bearings, it brings the tightness around Louis’ cock from beautiful to exquisite.

“Christ, yes. Fuck!” he cries. So much for maintaining equilibrium. He’s underestimated Harry’s prowess, as it’s been far too long since he’s benefited from it. To see Harry’s head working over him, the contoured plane of his back stretching down and down, is a reward Louis doesn’t think he deserves, not when he was so very quick to doubt. Despite having no real cause for it, jealousy swamps him again.

“Never,” Louis starts, gulping, “for anyone else. Fucking never, you hear me?”

“Neh-uh,” Harry somehow manages to promise around Louis’ cock. He gets a hand on Louis’ arse and kneads the princely swell of it. Once Louis remembers they’re roleplaying, he nudges Harry’s worshipful fingers away.

“Did I give you permission?”

Harry pulls his mouth off and his hand back. “No,” he grumbles. His eyes close perfunctorily as Louis gives one side of his hair a sharp, punishing yank. “Sorry, Daddy, sorry,” Harry adds, briefly stupefied. He relishes the sting on his scalp, and Louis knows it—isn’t afraid to employ careful force to get Harry into the right mentality.

“Hmm,” Louis says. “You bloody well should be sorry.” He pauses, struggling to remain in character. He needs to make this about sex, but it’s too difficult. Louis’ too cross. “You left me alone. Like, you told me—You didn’t really, but you made me believe you were going after—” Louis has to take a break, actually needs to shake his head to clear it. When he begins again, he schools his voice to a gentle tone. Under the anger is the sorrow Louis wants him to understand. “It hurt so bad, Harry. The whole time, I just wanted to die.”

His words are severe, but Louis strokes the curve of Harry’s left ear, pushing Harry’s hair back with his other hand so the peculiar shape of it is exposed. Louis loves the whorled cartilage irrationally, finds himself leaning over to bite at it.

“‘m sorry,” Harry whimpers, tearing up.

“No, don’t be,” Louis says, in an apparent radical change of opinion. “I was wrong, is all. I’m an idiot.”

“But you’re my favourite idi—person.” Even in jest, Harry can’t call Louis a mean name.

“Alright,” soothes Louis, locating Harry’s mouth with his own and joining them. Harry falls back smoothly, letting Louis climb atop him. Their kiss is flavoured with smoke and anguish; they snog until Louis needs more. He’s done with talking, probably. He doesn’t know if they’ll eventually continue arguing or get on with the making up, but he knows they need to discover if they’re still good together like this. With their bodies—so dissimilar in form, so compatible in function. The dry spell has gotten intolerable, and apparently Harry concurs.

“Make love to me?” he pleads.

“Fuck you, you mean,” corrects Louis, and it makes Harry’s desire more focused.

“Yes?” Harry’s voice wavers. He clutches one of Louis’ elbows, holding him close.

“Say it, then.”

“Please… Please fuck me, Daddy.”

“Is it really me you want, though?” Louis can’t help asking. “Or just a good dicking? Maybe you’d take anyone that asked. Anyone who bought you a girly drink or—”

“No!” Harry dares to interrupt. “Just you, Louis. I want you. _I choose you_ , remember? I—”

Louis stops Harry talking with a chuck under the chin that makes his teeth clank. The younger man—pretending the age gap is wider yet—has spoken out of turn, and is immediately contrite.

“Get the stuff.” It’s nothing as mild as a suggestion. Daddy’s back in charge.

⌛⌛⌛

**4:58 AM**

Preparation for sex is typically brief. Harry’s accustomed to the nominal burning sensation as Louis enters him, would go so far as to say he prefers it. With Louis supine, Harry labours over him—legs open, knees to the sheets, and arse receiving Louis’ stiff cock. It’s more difficult than he remembers to get it all inside, but every centimetre is worth it.

“Deeper, love, a little more. No, I think you can go farther... There! That’s it, that’s exactly it,” Louis praises.

Louis is loud, loud, and loud when he’s taking his pleasure, as Harry delights in ribbing him about, frequently mid-coitus. For now, though, Harry keeps his mouth shut and his hips rocking. It’s not his place to comment, not now he’s playing Louis’ baby.

“God, Hazza, you’re so good at this, making Daddy come,” Louis croons as he concentrates on the sensation of being enveloped. “It’s your job, yeah? Like, practically your career.” He braces his hands lower on Harry’s sides, thumbs tickling the outer leaves of the laurel branches tattooed on Harry’s pelvis. “You’ve been sat on this cock since you were 16. That’s so bloody hot. How long’s it been, then?”

With the way he’s exerting himself, Harry is having trouble breathing, much less thinking. “I was told there would be no maths.”

Louis gives a hoarse belly laugh, a little out of control. Then he coughs when Harry plants his ass on him and grinds deeply. After a short while, Harry calms them both by flopping forwards and initiating a sweet kiss. His other movements slow almost to a stop.

“Twenty years,” Louis says in answer to his own question, the frightening number suddenly presenting itself. He plants a smooch on Harry’s hovering mouth. “Holy fuck. Think of how many times I’ve come inside you, babe,” Louis murmurs with awe. “Shit. _Fuck_ , Harry, I’m close. Go faster.”

Rolling back on his haunches, Harry pulls Louis to a seated position. Several of Louis’ joints protest, making a sound like unfolding tinfoil. After some hasty readjustments, Harry starts flouncing wildly in Louis’ lap—Louis’ body a sturdy support for his husband, a reliable framework for their intimate joining. His hair is tousled all over and flipping up at the ends, the way Harry likes it best. Harry likes everything about Louis best.

“How’s your back? You good?” Louis’ out of his mind, at this point, but he wants to confirm his husband’s wellness. It’s always been his priority to protect Harry, and the poor thing had suffered more than one injury in their time onstage. Louis doesn’t want to add any unintentional misery, though he’s not averse to tightening his hold on Harry’s hips, squeezing until it’s painful for his hands. Sometimes Harry desires more than his lover can give, wants bruises and marks that will linger like temporary tattoos. Louis does try.

“I feel—ungh. I’m really close,” Harry admits in a husky whisper, almost wary of advocating his own gratification. Harry wasn’t at fault last night, not technically, but he feels guilty nonetheless.

“I dunno, baby. Who gets to decide when you finish? Who gets to choose?”

 _Cruel_ , Harry thinks, but he stays submissive. “You, Daddy, you. Please,” he says. “I’ll ride you so hard after, promise, even if it hurts.”

It’s second nature for Louis to reach behind his partner and administer a hard crack across Harry’s left bum cheek. It makes Harry’s eyes brim and his sac constrict.

Flooded with affection, Louis brushes a fingertip down Harry’s treasure trail, the hair dark and springy. He figures a light touch will counteract the way Harry’s skin smarts on his arse. Louis finally gathers some lube from where they are joined and grasps Harry’s cock, pulling on it rhythmically. “Go on, then,” he urges. Harry makes a noise somewhere between a choke and a gasp, forgetting to bounce as Louis brings him off masterfully.

“I love you,” Harry says desperately, on the brink of climax, because it should be said, often and always. He’s so full of Louis, both arse and heart.

“Show me. Show me right now. Give it to me, darling.”

Obeying with glee, Harry comes hard over Louis’ hand and belly. God, he adores Louis’ stomach, especially now it’s a little podgy.

“There we go. Look at that, sunshine,” Louis marvels, wringing the last of Harry’s release from him. “Made us all sticky. You’ve got my neck, even!”

Still in the afterglow of his ecstasy, Harry looks at Louis curiously, not sure if he has pleased or irked him, but Louis reads his concern easily and is ready with reassurance.

“That’s marvelous. You’re marvelous. Best I’ve ever had, yeah?”

Harry nods as if he would know how he compares to Louis’ past sex partners. He believes him, though. Huffing a bit as Louis lifts him up and off his dick, Harry trembles at the deprivation, but he doesn’t have to wait for another part of Louis’ body to worship.

“Clean up my hand,” Louis commands, lifting it to Harry’s lips. “I need to use it now. You’ve no idea…”

“Daddy,” Harry says impetuously, most of the way through with his pleasant task. Lapping Louis’ come laden fingers still feels like an immense privilege. “Would you—” Then he stuffs his mouth with Louis’ hand, too shy to continue.

“Hmm?”

Harry suckles until Louis’ skin is somewhat pruney. “I mean, only if you want to...”

“Yeah?”

“I’d really like it if you’d, like—” He’s awkwardly pointing at his own face, communicating his wish to take Louis’ semen all over it.

“Yeah,” Louis grits out, suddenly comprehending. “Okay, love. You’ve been so good to me. On your back.”

Scrambling to situate himself on a pillow, Harry spreads out for his lover. Louis straddles his chest, pushing down on Harry’s shoulder with one hand, while beginning to masturbate with the other.

“All right?” Louis verifies. Regardless of the response, he’s going to come, and soon.

Harry mumbles, “All right, Daddy.”

“Call me by my name,” Louis rasps, pumping his cock over Harry’s face with speed and dexterity.

“Daddy,” Harry says more loudly, supposing Louis didn’t hear him the first time.

“No, not—”

It takes a minute, but Harry gets it. “Oh. You mean, Louis? You’re my Daddy, but you’re—you’re my Louis too.”

“Yeah, that’s it.” He’s unbelievably heartened to hear Harry’s dark voice moulding the syllables. “Yeah, Harry, I love you so much.” Louis finds that in this moment of reconnection, he doesn’t want anything between them, not even the flimsy artifice of nicknames. It doesn’t matter that role-play sometimes intensifies their pleasure: right now, their humdrum, timeworn selves are enough.

The feeling builds slowly in Louis’ groin, but once orgasm hits, it’s extraordinary. Louis whines through his climax, jerking and jerking his cock as though he’ll never stop. Dropping his jaw in a timely fashion, Harry catches some of the jetting liquid on his tongue, protruding flat and pink, and Louis generously spreads the mess to his partner’s cheeks, and eyebrows, and the bridge of his splendid nose. It’s an unorthodox baptism, but the meaning is nigh unto spiritual.

⌛⌛⌛

**5:32 AM**

On unsteady feet, Louis retrieves a cool, wet flannel for them to share. He’s still perspiring, under his arms and on his scalp. Louis pitches the filthy rag across the room when they’re finished and sprawls on his back atop the covers. They’re disgusting with sweat, and ash, and quite possibly come, but it can’t be helped. Watching the ceiling as though it might start playing a film, Louis attempts to regulate his respiration and heart rate, as well as his crazily spinning thoughts.

“I want this,” he says, finally, without looking at Harry. Movement at his side suggests Harry has turned to face him and scooted closer. He can feel the gravity of his regard. Maybe Louis should wait before he says something that will further jeopardize their relationship, but he can’t. Can’t delay this discussion—has to tell Harry how he feels and what he needs.

Louis rolls over. “I want to be yours. Your husband, your friend, everything. I mean, I’ve got my life proper built around you now. Wouldn’t know what else to do, really. Shit, I’m old but—”

“No,” Harry objects, stopping Louis’ speech by pinching his lips, then letting them go.

“No?” Louis thought he’d already run the full gamut of emotions, but a new kind of dread strikes him. Maybe Harry doesn’t agree, doesn’t feel the same anymore.

“No, you’re not old. That’s bollocks, Lou. Yes, I’ll take… Everything.”

Louis exhales through his nose and flings an arm across Harry’s upper body. “Fuck yes, you can have it. I’m so glad.”

“Me too,” Harry affirms with the kind of maniacal grin he can never contain when his husband gets soppy. “I’m just happy to be—here, and, like, with you. You know?” He snuggles into Louis’ embrace and closes his eyes. In two decades, this is the only home he’s ever known or wanted. Louis’ arms will be his permanent address, if he has his druthers. “But may I have my ring back, please?”

Louis ponders the ring on its icy bed, the frigid temperature outside. He experiences a strong psychosomatic shiver.

“Um, it’s—I’ll get it later, yeah? Let’s have a lie down, and then I will.”

“Mmm,” Harry hums, exhausted, blasé in the face of everything they’ve said and done in the last hour.

It’s okay to wait, Louis surmises. After all, Harry now wears two enduring bands around the finger in question. And because—though they may steadily be getting older—Harry and Louis have plenty of time left. Hades will freeze, swine will fly, clocks will run backwards, etcetera, etcetera, before Louis lets go of his beloved again.

He’ll never let go.


End file.
